"You 'ere to eat with Mister 'Oudini again?"

Adelaide Stratton looked up from her seat to see a friendly, curious smile on the waitress's face. She was surprised that the woman felt familiar enough to ask the question and even more surprised that her habit of dining with Harry had become apparent to others, but then she supposed they had become something like regulars at the pub. Ever since they'd gotten back to London from Canada they seemed to have fallen into the routine of meeting every Friday evening to share events from the week over a meal, even when they weren't working a case together. The waitress – Adelaide was fairly certain she was the wife of the pub owner – had never mentioned Harry by name before and Adelaide had assumed that she hadn't recognized him. Evidently that was not the case. The woman's face flushed slightly when she said "Houdini" and it was obvious that she held some admiration for her rather famous customer.

Adelaide studied the waitress carefully. She looked to be somewhere between 30 and 35 years old, energetic and pleasant. Her interest in Adelaide and Harry appeared well-meant, not gossipy, and she seemed to feel some sort of unspoken kinship with lady constable. She must have noticed the uniform, Adelaide thought, and realized that while they were from different backgrounds, both of them belonged to that select group comprised of females who held jobs – not a complete rarity but still not all that common in 1901. Perhaps it was that bond that made the woman decide it was acceptable to cross into personal territory and ask about Adelaide's dinner companion. At any rate, Adelaide saw no harm in answering her question. She found the waitress sincere and good-humored. And, after all, Harry was going to be coming through the door shortly.

"Yes," she replied, "I'm expecting Mr. Houdini to join me tonight."

The woman nodded, still smiling. "Are you a couple, then? You two meet 'ere pretty regular."

Adelaide felt her cheeks warm slightly, although she wasn't quite sure why. The wise thing would be to reply that it was none of the waitress's business, but the question had been kindly meant. So, she answered honestly instead, "No, we're not a couple. We work together from time to time. And we're friends." Well, friends apart from that one kiss in Canada that they never spoke of - that very surprising, very earnest Kiss.

"Oh." The waitress actually seemed disappointed on Adelaide's behalf. When the constable gave her a querying look, she leaned down and explained, "'E left tickets for me and me 'usband to see his show last week. Very kind of 'im - we had a wonderful time. We got all dressed up and made a night of it."

Adelaide smiled to herself. That sounded like Harry. He had a habit of noticing people that others found invisible – like cab drivers and waitresses. She had no trouble believing he'd thought to give the woman tickets.

The waitress wasn't finished, however. She lowered her voice and got even closer to Adelaide's ear. "Have you ever seen his show?" When Adelaide shook her head, the woman continued, "There's this trick 'e does where 'e escapes from being locked up in a tank of water. Strips down to his skivvies when 'e gets in the tank." She paused, and her cheeks flushed. "You wouldn't guess it by seeing 'im in his clothes, but 'e's got quite the physique. All muscle. 'E certainly hasn't let himself get soft."

Adelaide frowned. This was an unexpected turn in the conversation. "Really," was all she could think of to say. The sensible constable as well as the proper lady in her said it was time to change the subject. The flesh and blood woman, on the other hand, was curious what the waitress would utter next.

The woman giggled suddenly. "I think the ladies in the audience liked that trick most of all. Not sure their 'usbands were so happy about it, though. You know, comparisons and all…"

Adelaide laughed. She couldn't help it.

The waitress glanced over at the man pulling pints behind the bar. He was tall and well-built, although his stomach suggested he might sample an extra pork pie from the kitchen from time to time. Adelaide guessed that he was also a good ten years older than the vivacious woman standing next to her. The waitress said fondly, "Me 'usband's no slouch, but you see a man like Mister 'Oudini – strong and good with 'is hands - and you can't 'elp but wonder."

"Wonder what?" Adelaide asked, although she had an inkling of where the woman might be headed. Adelaide had, after all, been married.

The waitress flushed a deeper scarlet and she put her mouth right next to Adelaide's ear. "You know, wonder wot 'e's like," she paused, and after a furtive look at her husband added, "between the sheets." When Adelaide said nothing, the woman smiled apologetically and added, "You and Mr. 'Oudindi seem close and 'e looks at you like you're very important to 'im. I figured maybe you'd had the chance to find out. I'm sorry for being…" she struggled a moment for a word…"impertinent," she finished. She looked genuinely embarrassed.

Adelaide shook her head. "Don't worry about it – I'm not offended."

She truthfully wasn't. The fact that Harry Houdini liked her company and cared about her - clearly enough for this woman to remark on it - was more gratifying than it should have been. Adelaide reminded herself of all the reasons that she found Harry exasperating. He earned his living in entertainment, for starters, and made the London society pages fairly regularly - occasionally with a glamorous woman on his arm. He could be brash and blunt, taking honesty well past the point of propriety. And he gleefully ignored almost every convention that was the backbone of polite society. People might go to see his show, but he was unlikely to be asked to join any of the better gentlemen's clubs. He could dress the part, people would say, but he would never really be one of them.

But in a perverse way, all of that also made him very likeable, at least to Adelaide. Most men with his resources would have wanted her to dress for dinner and taken her to an elegant, formal restaurant where the crystal tinkled softly and people spoke in hushed tones. Harry loved the jovial atmosphere of the pub and was fine with her coming to dinner still wearing her constable's uniform. While they ate he gave her every bit of his attention, listening to what she said, commenting on it and asking questions – questions that sometimes challenged her to think differently. And he paid her one of the greatest compliments a man could pay a woman, at least in Adelaide's mind; he respected her intelligence and he took her work seriously. As for the women he was photographed with in the society pages - Adelaide noticed that he was never with the same woman twice. They were a temporary adornment, there for one evening and then gone. His friendship with her, this standing dinner date, was constant.

There were times when Adelaide thought, like the waitress, that Harry looked at her as something more than a friend. But ever since The Kiss he'd been…well, almost cautious. The brashness hadn't disappeared completely, but there were moments when he seemed a little uncertain and he'd dropped the innuendos altogether. Which was good, she reminded herself, she should be happy about that.

"Good evening, ladies."

Both Adelaide and the waitress's heads snapped up to see the subject of their conversation standing there, a smile crinkling his blue eyes. Adelaide hoped her face didn't appear as guilty as the other woman's - the waitress looked as though she'd been caught pilfering a wallet.

Adelaide did her best to recover.

"Good evening, Harry," she responded with reasonable composure. The waitress quickly diverted her eyes to the floor, studying it with great interest. The hectic flush on her cheeks returned.

Harry glanced at the woman curiously and Adelaide expected him to ask about her obvious discomfort. But instead, all he said was, "Martha, I hope you and your husband enjoyed the show the other evening?" (Of course he would have learned the waitress's name, Adelaide thought, something she'd never bothered to do.)

Martha nodded, not meeting Harry's eyes. "Very much. Thank you for the tickets."

"What was your favorite trick?"

Martha looked at Adelaide and turned an even deeper scarlet. "They were all good, Mr. 'Oudini," she mumbled. "I couldn't pick one out above t'others." When he looked like he might probe further, she quickly added, "I'll go and fetch your glass of milk now." And she fled the table.

Harry watched her go, a puzzled expression on his face. "Funny," he said to Adelaide. "The women usually tell me they prefer the water torture." He shrugged, and in his typical cocky fashion added, "They like seeing me with my shirt off."

Normally Adelaide would have taken him to task for a statement like that, but it seemed wiser this time to leave it alone.

It's funny how a seemingly insignificant conversation can stay in your memory for weeks.

Adelaide generally had a gift for forgetting specific discussions, particularly useless, unpleasant ones. Take Sergeant Gudgett, for example. He could enthusiastically lecture her for 30 minutes on the reasons why a woman did not belong in Scotland Yard and Adelaide wouldn't recall a word of it two hours later. It was a defense mechanism, really. A faulty memory was a friend to the modern woman, helping her survive the endless advice she was given.

But when a waitress in the local pub shared a few thoughts about Harry Houdini's more…tangible…assets, well, Adelaide just couldn't get those words out of her head. They were there every time she dined with him, every time they interviewed a suspect. They were there when she was wedged between Arthur and Harry in the cramped seat of a cab. And they were there on the evenings she, Arthur and Harry huddled late at Arthur's house to review progress on their latest case. Harry would take his jacket off and Adelaide found herself trying to peer through the linen of his shirt to see whether Martha was right about the strength of his arms. At such times she was grateful that neither Harry nor Arthur could read thoughts.

The frightening part was that she knew it was entirely within her power to find the answer to Martha's question about Harry's…skills. Ever since The Kiss, Harry had ceased his not-so-subtle hints about Adelaide spending the night with him, but she was quite certain that if she were to show up outside his bedroom door she would not be turned away. Harry clearly did not subscribe to the idea that sex was only for married people, and Adelaide suspected he also did not believe the Victorian notion that normal women did not have desires. Adelaide was not too crazy about that notion either, come to think of it. While there certainly had been issues in her marriage to Benjamin – including the fact that it was built upon a lie - satisfactory physical congress had never been one of them. And now, thanks to a ten minute conversation with Waitress Martha, she couldn't help but wonder whether said congress with Harry might be equally or even more satisfying.

Of course she had no intention of truly investigating the matter. She might be a modern, even unconventional woman, but hopping into bed simply because she found a man attractive was pushing the boundaries. And while she had come to accept and appreciate many of Harry's more un-English qualities, his out-sized ego was not one of them and she did not want to feed it further. Any kind of admiration or interest in his person would certainly do that. And finally, working together might become terribly awkward if they were ever to…well, it didn't bear thinking about.

So Adelaide did her best to focus on their cases and drive Martha's words out of her head. Fate, however, was not always cooperative.

Adelaide Stratton wanted to learn how to pick a lock.

As a constable she was - strictly speaking - supposed to enter locked premises only when a warrant had been granted by the local magistrate or a suspect was already in custody. And…generally…she agreed with that principle. She was an officer of the law, after all, and obligated to uphold it. Picking a lock was something that Harry Houdini with his disregard for the rules would do, not Adelaide Stratton.

Still, there were those rare occasions during a case where there were gray areas. A life might be at stake, for example, or the investigation might not be an official one. Such situations benefited from quick, decisive action, including a search for physical evidence. Harry's ability to get past any door had come in handy in the past and it was beginning to irritate her to have to rely on him for all the lock-picking. She wanted the freedom to act, even when he wasn't there. Plus, it was a skill that would give her a one-up on the insufferable Sergeant Gudgett. The fact that he thought he was a better police officer merely because of the state of his lower anatomy was annoying.

One of those rare occasions presented itself shortly after Adelaide's conversation with Martha. The case was of the unofficial sort and not supernatural in the least. The wife of a friend of Arthur's had noticed her jewelry disappearing, a piece here or there over time. At first she and her husband suspected the maid, but they eventually realized that the losses coincided with a specific dinner guest – a young, single man who was the son of friends. Their suspicions were further supported by learning that the fellow had a gambling habit, losing at cards fairly regularly at his gentleman's club. For the sake of their relationship with their friends, they did not want to report the case to the police. They did, however, want to confront the young man with proof and recover any jewelry he may still have in his possession.

Which led to the need for lock-picking.

The fellow had a flat a short distance from his club. The plan was for Arthur, a member of the same club, to engage the man in conversation while Adelaide and Harry took a quick look at his rooms. A pearl broach had disappeared from the woman's jewelry box only the night before, so it was possible that the evidence might still be in his flat. If they found it, they would challenge him with the broach. Thus, Harry and Adelaide stood in front of his door, with Harry reaching into his pocket to pull out his set of picks.

"Could I try?" The words were out of Adelaide's mouth before she knew it.

Harry raised one eyebrow. "Constable Stratton, sworn to uphold the law, are you telling me that you wish to learn the art of breaking and entering?"

There were a lot of things Adelaide could have responded with, but time was of the essence so instead she simply said, "Yes." Harry could tease her about the legalities later.

He stared at her for moment, his smile fading. "I suppose," he said more soberly, "that it's a good skill for you to have. You have a habit of finding danger and lock-picking could get you out of trouble one of these days." He pulled one of the picks out of his case and handed it to her. "Here, give it a try."

Adelaide grasped the pick, then inserted it into the lock and wiggled it around. She did it gently, and then more vigorously.

And absolutely nothing happened. She looked at Harry questioningly.

He smiled. "Get down lower. When you're first learning, it helps to be at eye-level with the lock. You can feel the tumblers better."

Adelaide complied, lowering herself into a crouch in front of the door and staring straight into the lock.

"Now," Harry continued, "insert the pick all the way and pull it back slowly. At some point you should feel it catch. When you do, turn your wrist very quickly. It may take a little force."

Adelaide did as instructed. It took her several tries and she needed to place the pick in various positions within the lock, but eventually she felt it catch. She smiled and quickly turned her wrist.

Nothing.

"The turn needs to be quicker and harder," Harry said. "Try again."

She did. Still nothing.

Harry crouched down behind her and leaned forward, covering her hand with his. "Here," he said, guiding her hand, pushing the pick into the lock and then pulling it back slowly. "You feel it catch?"

Adelaide nodded and swallowed. "Yes," she said shortly. She could also feel Harry's head close to hers, his chin almost resting on her shoulder and his other hand placed lightly on her back. He smelled surprisingly good – not heavily cologned, just clean, with the subtle scent of shaving soap.

"Good. Now…" Harry flicked his wrist, his hand still holding hers, and the lock opened with a distinctive click. "You see how fast it has to be? If you're tentative, you'll lose the connection."

"Yes, I see." Adelaide expected Harry to stand up and push the door open so they could look for the broach. They didn't know how long Arthur could keep the fellow occupied, after all, and they were in a public hallway. But apparently he'd decided to make it a real lesson. He flicked his wrist again and the locked snapped once more into place.

"Now you try." He removed his hand from hers, but remained crouched behind her. He gave her a small pat on the shoulder for encouragement.

Feeling like she was in an examination in school, Adelaide once again inserted the pick and then gently withdrew it until she felt it grab. She turned her wrist hard. There was a sound of the tumblers moving, but the lock didn't open.

"Better," Harry said into her ear, his breath warm on her neck. "It takes a little bit of strength." He put his hand over hers once more then slid it back until his fingers gently encircled her wrist. "You should squeeze a rubber ball fifty times every night, it will build up your forearm strength."

Adelaide recalled Martha's words about Harry's muscles, while at the same time becoming conscious of his chest pressed against her back. She suddenly felt a little breathless, the result of crouching down for so long, no doubt. "Is that what you do?" she asked.

"Among other things," Harry replied, a smile in his voice. "My living relies on maintaining a good level of fitness so I have a series of exercises I do most days." He moved his hand back over hers. "Now, do you want to try again?"

Adelaide was about to say "yes" when there was the sound of a throat clearing behind them. She tried to jump to her feet, but Harry restrained her with a firm hand on her shoulder.

"Hello Arthur," he said calmly, not even looking up. "We're just going over the finer points of lock-picking. I trust the young man is not on his way here?"

"He's not," Arthur replied. "He left the club, but said he has some other business to attend to. I was coming up to tell you that you didn't have to rush. Apparently you already knew that." His voice was dry and Adelaide wasn't sure whether she heard amusement or disappointment in his tone. She felt her cheeks redden.

If Harry was embarrassed, he didn't show it. He remained crouched behind her but removed his hand from hers. "So, Adelaide," he said softly, "One more time?"

She nodded and bit her lip. Anxious to get out of what she was sure looked like compromising position to Arthur, she pulled the pick back quickly and gave it a hard yank.

The lock opened. She stared at it in disbelief for several seconds.

"Nice work, Adelaide," Harry said. For a second she thought he might kiss her on the cheek, but instead he patted her shoulder gently and got to his feet. "It's like anything else, you'll get better with practice. We'll get you your own set of picks and don't forget what I said about the rubber ball."

"I won't," she mumbled, standing up. Her back felt a little chilled without Harry's warmth close behind her.

They found the broach and closed the case.

The opportunity to get a closer look at Harry's "physique," as Martha would say, was thrust upon Adelaide few weeks later when they were south of London in Cornwall, investigating a murder reported to be the work of something that was half human-half sea creature. Scotland Yard was now firmly in the habit of throwing anything with a supernatural bent their way and, after a long day slogging up and down the beach, Adelaide, Arthur and Harry were having a late dinner in the tavern of their inn mulling over logical explanations for the killing. They were being treated with the coolness that locals often reserved for Londoners, with Harry as an American, getting the worst of it. He ignored a number of snide comments but jumped to his feet when an oversized fisherman spilled a pint down his back.

The fight that ensued was dramatic, but quick. Despite having a good 50 pounds on Harry and wielding a large knife, the fisherman soon found himself semiconscious on the floor with the American looking none the worse for wear. As he had in the past when his temper had gotten the better of him, Harry apologized to Adelaide and Arthur and then excused himself, saying he was going to turn in early. They watched him leave. He seemed uncharacteristically subdued.

"Why do you suppose he can never just turn his back when people push him?" Arthur asked Adelaide. "He's got to know he's more successful than some oaf like that will ever be."

Adelaide thought about the childhood stories Harry had shared with her months ago, about how being an immigrant had meant being regarded with suspicion and treated as if you were less worthy than the people born in your adopted country. "I think Harry always feels he has something to prove," she said softly, "especially to anyone who doubts his mettle."

Arthur shook his head. "Well, I hope he never gets insulted by someone he can't beat. He's certainly tough, but he's not invincible."

Adelaide smiled wryly. "No, he's not, although I'm not sure he'd agree with that." She yawned. "I think I am going to go to bed as well. It's been a long day."

"Goodnight, Adelaide. I'll see you in the morning."

"Goodnight."

Adelaide climbed the stairs slowly and headed down the hallway toward her room, looking forward to climbing into bed and closing her eyes. The light still shone from under Harry's door, and as she passed she noticed a small, dark stain on the floor. She stopped to peer at it.

It was blood.

Adelaide frowned. Harry had given no indication of sustaining any kind of injury after the skirmish and she had not seen a wound, but the stain suggested that the fisherman's knife had made contact at least once. It certainly was like Harry, she thought, not to say anything, to refuse to acknowledge a vulnerability, even to her or Arthur. Still, she had to believe that if it truly were serious he would have approached Arthur – reluctantly – for assistance. Harry was proud but not an imbecile. He knew his livelihood depended on his health and Arthur was, after all, a doctor.

She glanced once more at the blood spot. On the other hand, Harry was incredibly pig-headed. And hanging upside down in a tank of cold water four times a week had probably given him a high threshold for discomfort. After all, she'd seen him take blows in the past and ignore them entirely. There was some chance that the knife wound was serious and he didn't even realize it.

Adelaide stood indecisively outside Harry's door for a good minute, weighing the risk of feeding his ego by requesting entry to his bedroom against the worry that the cut was grave. Eventually she came to the conclusion that she would not get any sleep unless she put the question of his injury to rest. If Harry looked fine when he opened the door, then she would bid him goodnight and go to her room. She knocked tentatively.

There was no answer. She had not contemplated that as an outcome.

She knocked a little more loudly.

Still no answer.

Adelaide began to be concerned. She put her ear to the door but heard no movement from inside. She wondered if the wound was severe and if Harry had, in fact, passed out from blood loss. Maybe the knife had struck some vital organ or an artery. She imagined him lying in a spreading red pool, his face pale and his breathing shallow. Thoughts of his egotistical grin forgotten, she turned the knob sharply and pushed, hoping the door wasn't locked.

It wasn't. She burst into the room just in time to see Harry turn quickly away from her. He was still in his trousers, but with his shirt off, his suspenders dangling from the waist and a towel clamped to his bare abdomen. The towel was largely white, but Adelaide could see a red blotch spreading slowly under his hand. The fisherman's knife had indeed done some damage, although she couldn't immediately determine how much. Harry's color looked good, though, and he seemed a long way from passing out. He stared at her over his shoulder and she stared back, both of them surprised by her entrance.

Harry recovered first.

"Adelaide," he said cheerfully, "I'm glad to see you've finally come to your senses and paid me a visit, but I have to say that your timing is not very good. I'm a little…indisposed."

Adelaide sighed, mostly in relief although she hoped Harry didn't realize that. His response certainly sounded like the Harry she knew, a Harry who was definitely not on the verge of dying. Still, she wouldn't put it past him to bluff his way through a more serious injury. There was only one way to find out the extent of the damage.

"Let me see it, Harry."

Harry lifted his eyebrows. "See what, Adelaide? You'll have to be a little more specific." He glanced down at his bare torso. "I mean, do the trousers have to come off, too?"

She rolled her eyes. "The wound, Harry. Let me see your wound."

He sobered a little. "It's fine, Adelaide," he said dismissively, "Just a scratch."

"That's a lot of blood for a scratch. It may need stitches. So let me see it."

He exhaled with exaggerated forbearance. "Fine," he said, turning to face her. "Take a look."

She stepped closer and gently tugged the towel out of his hand. A red line, 5 or 6 inches long, immediately sprang to life on his lower stomach as the blood rushed to the surface of the cut. She leaned down to dab gingerly at it with the towel. The line disappeared, but then reappeared immediately when she stopped dabbing.

"You should ask Arthur to examine this."

Harry shook his head. "And listen to his lecture about being the bigger man and turning the other cheek? I don't think so." He smiled and touched Adelaide's hand briefly. "Believe me, in my line of work I get injured all the time. This one looks much worse than it is. It's not deep."

"Hmmm." Adelaide was not convinced. Resting her other hand on Harry's bare hip she bent down til she was eye level with the wound and pushed more firmly with the towel, staring intently to see if she could gauge its depth. It was true that she couldn't see any soft tissue underneath and it seemed, as Harry said, to be a minor cut. She probed a little further and couldn't help noticing that it was also true, as Martha had mentioned weeks earlier, that Harry hadn't let himself get soft – not in the least. His stomach was hard, and she could clearly see the distinctive pattern made by his abdominal muscles. She pushed on the wound again. Definitely hard. It dawned on her, to her great embarrassment, that other parts of Harry might be getting hard as well.

"Adelaide…" Harry's voice sounded a little strangled. He placed his index finger under her chin and gently urged her upright until their faces were inches apart. "As you can see, it's fine." His breathing seemed shallow. "It will stop bleeding soon, I'm sure." He dropped his hand to take the towel back from her, but she held onto it. For several long seconds they stared into each other's eyes, joined by a bloody (literally) towel. Adelaide leaned closer toward Harry and saw him coming forward to meet her.

The door opened. "Harry, I saw the blood on the floor and wanted to see if…" Arthur stopped abruptly when he saw the two of them. He cocked an eyebrow at Houdini's bare torso and seemed at a loss for words.

Adelaide stepped back, breaking eye contact with Harry, while Houdini once again administered to his stomach wound. She was fairly certain that Arthur had just saved them both from a repeat of The Kiss – a very good thing for her. Harry, of course, would be disappointed.

She tugged the towel sharply out of the man's hand and tossed it to Arthur. "It seems our Mr. Houdini isn't as invincible as he thinks he is. I don't think the cut needs stitches, but you should take a look – you're the doctor." She straightened up and put on her best, severe constable's face. "I'll say goodnight now, gentlemen." And without waiting for their responses, she left Harry's room, shutting the door behind her.

Once in the hallway, she wasn't sure whether she was relieved or vexed. She certainly was going to have a good story for Martha the next time she had dinner at the pub.

A/N: This show was an very pleasant surprise and I very much hope it's back for a second season. The leads are terrific, and I particularly love how Michael Weston plays Houdini with a mixture of brashness, boyishness, and vulnerability.